It looked like chocolate. It felt like chocolate. It smeared on his face like chocolate. But I’m guessing it didn’t taste anything remotely like chocolate. That final experiment was probably what set Widget2 crying for Mommy and Daddy this morning. I was the lucky parent who found him in his crib, desperately reaching out to me with poop-stained hands. It was like an avant-garde modern artist had snuck into my home last night and repurposed it as his personal canvas. So there I am, bright and early on a Saturday morning,
sleeping in weighing the risks of physical interaction with the bouncing baby biohazard in the boys’ room, and just wanting to say, “Thank you. Thank you, most enlightened practitioner of the high arts, for splattering human excrement all over my child and his bed sheet so you could make a statement about race, gender or social class in a way that shocks the sensibilities of us dimwitted troglodytes. Most of all, thank you for waking me up early, because I was probably just going to dream lame troglodyte dreams about stuff like football, steak and oppressing women. Instead, I will now oppress my wife and ask for her help, because she’s better at this sort of thing than I am.”
The removal of the diaper was an unveiling too horrific to recount. We promptly gave Widget2 a bath and a change of clothes, and I have spent the rest of the day suppressing this singular parenthood memory and second-guessing that last bottle of formula I fed him late last night.